I Promised
by Bonnie Holmes
Summary: Sherlock never speaks of his past. What happened to make him so disconnected from the rest of the world? And why does his brother feel such responsibility over him? John Watson intends to discover what really happened. But is it all too late for Sherlock as psychotic depression takes hold of his once brilliant mind? WARNING: Child Abuse, violence and depression.
1. Chapter 1

_1982:_

It was a cool February's night. The sky resembled a sheet of velvet, a deep indigo, sweeping across the empyrean; littered specks of white light. The light of distant stars. A gentle breeze caressed the tree tops, trying to entice the fresh green leaves out of their tightly sealed buds. A crystal frost was beginning to settle upon the finely tipped blades of grass; ice reflecting the polished light of the iridescent moon.

From his window, a young Mycroft Holmes could see a slight fox scuttling across the large expanse of lawn situated at the front of the house. He eyed the creature as it pointed nosed scuffed along the ground, in search of a clue that would point him in the direction of his next meal. Being unsuccessful, the fox would raise its head and flounce forward a few paces; feet gliding effortlessly threw the air, before repeating the same motion. Mycroft watched the inquisitive animal make its way across the turf, and continued to do so, until it disappeared out of his line of sight.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft sighed and turned to face his alarm clock, resting on his bedside table.

He looked glumly at the metallic hands. '02:31.' He had to get up in less than four hours and he hadn't had a moment of sleep. Normally, after an hour or so of reciting the alphabet backward, lethargy would set in and he'd drift off.

Mycroft had gone to bed early that night. His father was in one of his infamous tempers, most likely to have been caused by an 'incompetent' member of staff at the office that day. The fourteen year old had claimed he felt ill in order to excuse himself from the dinner table before heading up to his bedroom. The last thing he wanted was to get tangled up in another fierce argument. The previous one involved the exchange of some rather venomous words ensued by a tea cup being thrown at his head. He rather not have a reiteration.

Mycroft glanced back towards his clock. _'Oh dear, Lord.' _The minute hand had only shunted forward three spaces. This was no good, he had to do something.

After some deliberation, Mycroft decided he was going to read a book. He'd finished all the ones in his room so thought he'd go and fetch a new one from his father's study. _'I'm sure he won't mind if I just borrow one. For...Educational purposes.' _He said, trying to reassure himself.

Throwing away the weighty covers, Mycroft hoped out of bed. He shuddered at sudden temperature change; recoiling as his bare feet made contact with the cold wood panel flooring. Scouring round the inky black room, Mycroft hastily pulled on his slippers and dressing gown, and hurried to the door; quickly turning back to snatch up his electric torch. He grabbed hold of the brass door knob and turned it over slowly in his hand, trying to make as little noise as possible. Hearing the little metallic click, Mycroft eased the door open and slipped out into the hallway.

It was slightly darker out here than in in his bedroom but it was twice as cold. Mycroft tugged at the stripy sleeves of his pyjamas, pulling his hands further inside in an attempt to keep his fingers warm. He slowly edged down the corridor, ensuring the door to his parents' bedroom was firmly closed before switching on his flash light; blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new found brightness.

He continued down the corridor, throwing the torch light across the walls, looking at the pictures and paintings that hung on them. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he walked through the darkness, their stern faces staring back at him. It was as if they knew he was about to go in his Father's study.

Mycroft had just about reached the main flight of stairs when he paused outside Sherlock's room. A soft, warm light spilled out from the crack under his bedroom door. _'That's strange...'_ thought Mycroft. '_Sherlock's never normally awake at this hour.' _He frowned and pressed an ear to the door. At first he wasn't sure but he thought could hear his little brother snivelling quietly to himself. Mycroft pulled away slowly and looked apprehensively at the inviting glow on the floor. He tentatively placed his fingers against the varnished wood, tapping it ever so gently with his index finger. "Sherlly," he whispered, "Are you alright?" There was no reply. "It's me, Mike." Still no answer. "Listen," he said, slightly louder this time. "I'm going to come in, okay?" He waited a few more seconds before cautiously prodding the door open.

The sight that met him both shocked and worried Mycroft. His baby brother had stuffed himself into the far corner of the room. His legs were drawn up tightly into his chest, face was buried in his folds of his arms; pressing down on top of his knee caps. Every breath he drew was jittery and uneven, making his body shudder.

The torch clattered to the ground. Mycroft rushed towards his brother, hurdling over the bed.

"Sherlock, what is it? What's the matter?" he said hurriedly, dropping to his knees. "It's okay, Sherlock. What happened? Did you have a nightmare?" He placed a gently hand upon his brothers shoulder but was startled when Sherlock flinched, arms flying up towards his face. Mycroft pulled away, staring at his younger sibling with concern and puzzlement. "Sherlock…? Are you okay?" Slowly, Mycroft lent forward, peering between the Sherlock's small fingers. His startled expression dropped. "Sherlock… Show me your face." The seven year old shook his head, turning away from his brother.

Cautiously, Mycroft reached forward and took his brothers hands in his.

Upon his touch, Sherlock suddenly screamed out. "NO!"

Mycroft fell back on heals putting his hands out in front of him. "Shhh! Shhh! Shhh! It's okay! It's okay! I'm not going to hurt you."

Sherlock had now pulled his duvet over his head and recoiled even further into the corner.

Slowly, Mycroft sank to the floor, releasing a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. He glanced back towards the door, to check that no one had been disturbed by his sibling's sudden outcry, before crawling beneath the mass of material.

Mycroft sat cross-legged in front of his brother, observing him with a look of compassion. Sherlock was pressed against the wall; feet turned in on themselves. His small, pale, shaky hands smothered his face, leaving only the tangled mess of black curls visible.

"Sherlock, please tell me what happened."

Sherlock shook his head, dragging a sleeve across his nose.

"Who did this to you?" Mycroft's voice was soft and sincere.

"No one!" He shouted. His tone was instant and desperate. It suddenly dropped off though, to a mumble. "I just walked into a door."

Mycroft sighed. "Let me see." he said, hold his hands out.

Sherlock stared at his brother's hands, eyes full of trepidation.

He slowly lowered his hands, eyes tightly shut; biting his lip.

Mycroft rose a gently hand to Sherlock's faces, cupping his cheek in his palm. He ran his thumb over the blossoming bruise that was surrounding Sherlock's eye. Sherlock gave a hiss of pain, flinching away. Mycroft look at him apologetically. Sherlock slowly returned to his brother's touch. Mycroft stared into his brother's eyes for a moment more before turning his gaze to the floor.

Dreading the answer he would receive: "Sherlock, what _really_ happened?

There was a pause. The young boy dropped his head. "It was dad."

Mycroft face screwed up. The one thing he didn't want to hear. Mycroft was accustom to Siger Holmes' wrath; often being on the receiving end of a fist whenever his rage got the better of him. He did well to hide the scars and bruises, leaving his younger brother blissfully unaware of risk his father posed. Their mother knew, but she didn't really care. She always dismissed the idea, pretending it wasn't happening.

"And this, this is the first time? The first time he's hurt you?"

Sherlock nodded glumly.

"Why did he do it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I-I just got in his way. It was my fault."

"No, Sherlock. It's not your fault. He shouldn't have hit you, even if you were in his way."

Sherlock looked at his feet, knotting his fingers together.

"'Do you understand, Sherlock? It's not your fault."

He nodded, a single tear rolled down his pale face. Mycroft pulled his baby brother into an embrace. Sherlock collapsed into his shoulder, sobbing. Mycroft raised a hand, stroking the back of his head.

"I will never let him hurt you ever again, Sherlock... I promise."

Little did he know, it'd be a hard promise to keep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Soooo sorry it has taken me soooooo long to post something new. I've been so busy doing a musical show but I'm all done now so will be posting more often. :) PM me if you spot any mistakes. Reviews always welcome ;)**

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><p>"Sir...?"<p>

Mycroft was pulled from his memories by a gentle knock at the door. It was Anthea, his secretary. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a meeting in five minutes and we really ought to be going."

Mycroft blinked, centring his thoughts again. Then, turning warily towards the door, still slightly disorientated; he replied: "Yes, of course. Be right out."

He glanced towards the window. Pale winter sunlight was streaming through the twisted tree branches outside, casting contort, writhen shadows across the floor. How long had he been sitting here? It couldn't be three already…Could it?

Mycroft sat in the silence puzzling over this re-awoken memory. Why now? It had been such a long time. What had made his brain wander back into that forgotten territory?

Pausing again, Mycroft pulled out his phone; the screen illuminating his pale skin in the dim gloom of his office.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE:

To: SHERLOCK HOLMES

Haven't heard from you in a while, brother dear. Everything alright? If you need anything, just call me. I'm on your side. Remember that, Sherlock.

-MH

Mycroft's thumb hovered above the send button. No. He was over reacting. Sherlock's fine. He's always fine. If something was wrong, John would call. The elder Holmes brother demurred over the button for a moment long before pocketing his phone.

Sighing, Mycroft snatching up his umbrella and left.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock..? You okay?"

"Hmm-?" Sherlock was coaxed from his memories the gentle murmur of his flat mate's voice. He was no longer in his childhood home. He was in his London residence: 221B.

His eyes flicked open to see John in his arm chair, glancing at him from behind a newspaper. The lamp beside him was on, illuminating his worn out features in the dim, grey, dullness of the living room. They were arranged into a look of concern and puzzlement.

"Err- Yes. Fine." Sherlock said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He got up from where he'd been splayed out on the sofa and paced towards the fireplace. John's gaze followed Sherlock across the room. Sherlock, however, was completely unaware; distracted by whatever was afflicting his mind.

"Are you sure?" John pressed. "It's just- you were mumbling in your sleep."

"Fine." Sherlock retorted in his typical bored, baritone voice.

He was lying. John knew something was wrong. He could feel it.

Upon reaching the other side of the room, the detective plucked his phone from the mantelpiece and began hastily typing out a message.

NEW MESSAGE:

To: MYCROFT HOLMES

It's happening again, Mycroft. They're coming back. What should I do? I don't understand what's happening. Please tell me what to do.

-SH

John watched as friend's face contorted in doubtful confusion. He could almost see the cogs of thought grinding and locking together in his mind as his thumb hovered over the send button.

'_What was stopping him?' _

Sherlock's eye line flashed to the door before he sighed and replaced the phone back on the shelf; message unsent.

"I'm going to my room." the Sherlock said curtly.

John went to reply but the sleuth had already disappeared.

There was something behind his eyes John had never seen before... And it made him feel very uneasy.

He was right: Something was defiantly wrong with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
